CHAPTERONE
CRACKING MY KNUCKLES, I STAND MOTIONLESS as everyone else races around me, whispering frantically into their headsets. The thumping of my heart blends with the hum of electrical current coursing through the jungle of wires and cords. Anticipation and dread collide in this time and place. In a few minutes, my life is going to change forever.
“Peyton Sinclaire,” a woman says, her voice slicing through the din of production.
I jump at the sound of her voice.
She scans something on the tablet in her hand. “They’re almost ready for you.”
“Uh, yeah. Whenever.” I’m trying to be cool and relaxed, but what few nerves that have managed, up until now, to remain calm are starting to rev into high gear.
The production assistant, or PA as everyone around here calls them, nods but doesn’t bother to look up. “I’ll walk you through what’s going to happen. Don’t worry. You’ll do great.”
“Thanks.” I’m not sure how she could know whether I’ll be great or not. Especially since I’ve only been able to manage a total of four words in her presence. In a few minutes, the cameras will begin rolling, and they won’t stop for an entire month. Everything I say and do will be fodder for the editing room. How can anyone be sure how great someone will be under those conditions?
The PA continues giving her instructions, eye contact not required. “You’re going to be the first person to enter the set.”
When I don’t say anything, she looks up. This tiny gesture grants her my full attention. “Aren’t you excited?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Do you have any idea how many people auditioned for Top Teen Chef?”
“Um, yeah. I’m super excited.” I’m also about to throw up all over her shoes.
“You should be,” she huffs in a way that makes me wonder if she auditioned but didn’t make the cut. That would be awkward.
Top Teen Chef. Personally, I think the name lacks pizzazz for a teen reality cooking competition. I mean, we’re going to be battling for a full-ride scholarship to any one of the four American Culinary Institute campuses. I feel like the name of the show should include the words epic, smackdown, or maybe cage match. I grin at the thought of a round cage filled with every cooking gadget I can imagine. We would come armed with graters, strainers, and mandolines. The crowd would chant our names, and when we win they would shower us with marshmallows—flambé style. I don’t realize that I let out a little chuckle until the PA clears her throat and I quickly force myself to stand at attention.
I don’t think she would enjoy my reimagining of the show as much as I do.
“It will be just you and the camera crew on set when you go through the doors,” she continues. “Take your time. You just need to walk in, look around, be impressed—that kind of stuff.”
I know exactly what she means because I’ve watched every episode of every cooking competition show that has ever aired on Food TV. Every show starts off with these confident cooks who are ready to take home the prize, but when they enter the hallowed grounds of the kitchen, they turn into four-year-olds on Christmas morning. It’s cute. Now I’m about to find out if those reactions are real or staged. I close my fist and open it, repeating the process until the tingling in my hands goes away.
The PA listens intently to something being said on her headset; then, after a moment, she raises her eyes from her tablet and turns her attention back to me. “You ready?”
“One question.”
She stares at me for what seems like forever before saying “What?” in what I can only assume is her trademark impatient voice.
“What am I supposed to do after I look around?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, once I’ve seen everything and the next person comes in? Should I get out of their way?”
“Just stay on the set, looking around until the next person comes in. We’ll space out everyone’s arrival. It will probably take an hour or less.”
“Right, but what do I do when they come in?”
“I guess that’s up to you,” she says, still looking at me like she can’t tell whether I’m joking or serious. “But if I were you, I would talk to everyone you can. No one wants to watch a group of newly graduated high schoolers standing around, staring at each other.”
“Not even if you play that old-time western showdown music? Maybe the camera guy could zoom in real close on our eyes. I can squint really well.”
I thought my attempt at a joke was rather good, but she is not impressed.
Or she doesn’t have time to answer because whoever is whispering in her ear must be saying something important, as her face is stern with concentration.
“They’re ready for you.” She raises her hand and motions to the double doors in front of us. “These are swinging doors, so don’t pause when you enter, or they might swing back and hit you.”
“And that would be bad.”
“Yes, and it’ll also make it into the blooper reel we’re planning for the end of the season.”
“Good to know,” I mutter, staring at the door and trying to shake off the sudden feeling that the walls are starting to close in around me.
Get it together, Pey, I tell myself. Exhaling, I place both palms on the doors and push hard enough to make a memorable entrance. The doors don’t budge, but unfortunately I keep moving. Right up until the moment my nose slams into the door and my brain rattles inside my skull.
The entire backstage crew stares at me as a hot red flush sweeps across my face. I can already feel the lump forming on my lip where I bit it.
“What happened?” the PA yells as she races over to my side. “Are you okay?” she asks, putting her hand under my chin and lifting my face up. She uses the flashlight app on her phone to blind me while she inspects the damage.
“Ow,” I say, twitching my nose and blinking as fast as I can to hold back the tears. “That wasn’t the entrance I was going for.”
She studies my face, turning it from one side to the other. “No blood. You think you’re ready to try again?” I see her sneak a peek at her phone. Probably checking the time.
“Is it swollen?” I ask, running my tongue along the inside of my mouth, wincing.
“Nope. You look great.”
I’m pretty sure she’s lying. But on the other hand, she’s not shrinking back in horror, so that’s a good sign.
She presses the button on her walkie-talkie. “Can someone check on the swinging doors?”
“Tell them they’re not swinging,” I mutter, still touching my lip. “Can I have a mirror?”
She ignores me and checks the locks on the door. “No, we’re good on this side.” A moment later I hear a click from the bottom of the door. “Thanks,” the PA says into her walkie.
She turns to me, her smile wide. “I think we’re ready now.”
“Can I have a mirror?” I repeat.
“No time. Are you ready?”
“If I say no, will it make a difference?”
“Nope.”
“Then I guess I’m ready.”
She pushes me back into place before fading away into the shadows.
I inhale and count to three before exhaling, trying to forget my stinging lip and damp palms. It’s now or, well, I guess it’s just now. I give the doors a gentle nudge, just to be sure, before pushing my way into the biggest opportunity of my life.
Standing at the edge of the set, I am overly aware of the cameras as they follow me like some magic eye in a fantasy movie. Then there are the lights—the very bright, extremely hot lights—and the boom mic waiting to catch anything that the mic on my shirt might miss. Of course, I only know it’s called a boom mic because a disembodied voice keeps yelling, “The boom mic is in the shot,” and “Hold it higher.” However, everything fades away as I walk, for the first time, onto the set. All I can see are the shiny chrome appliances and the neon letters spelling out the words “Top Teen Chef” in fancy script.
If I could design the most incredible kitchen, somehow this setup would still be better than that. Spanning the middle of the room are eight brightly colored cooking stations neatly organized into four rows for the contestants. At the back, behind the stations and a large table, are the state-of-the-art appliances—everything from an ice cream machine with flash freeze to a salamander broiler, and even some equipment I’ve never seen before. I pinch the flesh between my thumb and index finger slightly, just to make sure I’m not dreaming. Nope, not dreaming.
Taking up one entire side of the room is the true shining jewel of the set: the pantry. As I walk between the shelves and peer into the fridges, I swear it has got to be bigger than our grocery store back home, and it must have some kind of special lighting because I have never seen such vibrant red tomatoes or bright yellow peppers. Even when it’s not overrun with weeds, which is most of the time, the vegetables growing in the trailer park’s community garden definitely have never looked this good. I pick up a package of spinach so green it looks fake. Then, before I can check out anything else, the doors swing open and in walks the first of my competitors, a tall, muscular Black guy who looks as gobsmacked as I feel. When our eyes meet, we both break out into giddy grins.
“Can you believe this place?” he asks in a thick drawl as he turns, taking it all in.
I shake my head. “It’s so unreal. Can you believe we are going to get to spend every day here?”
He laughs, and there’s something about his charisma or the way he seems enthralled by everything in the room that puts me at ease. “I hear you. My whole family thinks I’m ridiculous for wanting to spend my summer sweating in a kitchen, but I think it’s going to be incredible. By the way, I’m Malik.”
“Peyton,” I say. I’m not sure whether we’re supposed to shake hands or not, so I wait a second to see what he does.
A half beat passes before he extends his hand toward me. Handshake it is. “I’m from Alabama.”
“Oh my God, we’re practically neighbors,” I say, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake.
“Really? Where’s home?”
“Florida.”
He tilts his head. “You know Florida isn’t really the South, right?”
“I’m from northern Florida. Fifteen miles from the Georgia line.”
“Well, in that case you’re Southern enough for me.”
An awkward silence falls between us as Malik looks up at the microphones hanging from the ceiling and then glances at the camera. I remember what the PA said about no one wanting to watch people stare at each other.
“It’s kind of weird, right?” I ask, hoping to break the silence.
“Like we’re being spied on?”
“Yeah. Which, if you think about it, we kind of are.”
He gives one more look at the camera and then back at me. “I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I like you, Florida. I think we should make a pact,” he says, leaning in close.
“You want to form an alliance? You know we don’t get to vote who stays and goes, right?”
“I know the rules,” he says, shaking his head as if he can’t believe I would think he didn’t. “We need to make a pact to have each other’s back.”
The image of the cage match competitions worms its way back into my mind, and I smile. “I think that sounds like a plan. Who are we watching out for?”
Malik straightens, looking very serious. “You know they had to have brought someone on the show to be the troublemaker. That’s the person we’ve got to watch out for.”
“What makes you think the producer would do that?”
“Because I know reality TV, and somebody in this cast is going to bring the drama.” He practically sings the last word.
“But how do I know you’re not the troublemaker?” I ask with a grin. “Your first move would probably be to get inside my head, so that way I don’t suspect you when you start pointing fingers at someone else.”
He starts to answer me, then stops.
I continue to smile, willing to wait him out.
“You know,” he says, “you don’t. But the way your mind works makes me wonder if I can trust you.” He pauses for the briefest of moments before continuing. “Still, we’re neighbors, so we should stick together.”
“A regional alliance is good enough for me. Besides, if you are the troublemaker, I’d make an excellentsidekick. Just saying.”
“Really?” he says, one eyebrow perking up.
I nod. “I have been known to create quite the diversion when the moment calls for it.”
He laughs again, and I smile. It’s easy to see that this is a guy who knows how to lighten the mood and make people feel comfortable—my nerves have even settled a little after our short conversation.
“I can’t wait to hear about your exploits.”
I pretend to wince. “I would, but it’s one of those things where if I tell you—”
“You’d have to kill me?” he finishes.
I shake my head. “You’d have to clean my kitchen for the rest of the show.” Then I give him my most innocent face. “And I’m very messy.”
“You know what? Never mind. And I am definitely going to keep my eye on you.”
I just grin at him as a friendly silence settles between us. I like Malik, and I’m glad the first person I meet is friendly and funny. If he’s right about the show bringing someone in just to stir up trouble, it’ll be nice to have an ally with a sense of humor.
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